The Last Card
by SomeStarsStillShine
Summary: [INDEFINITE HIATUS] "I'm sure I will regret this." Jacob sees a cold teenager at the train platform one night, and against his better judgement, tries to help him. But the teen thinks he's after something else. AU, all-human. M/M, slash, older Jacob/younger Edward. Some Jacob/Bella and Edward/Bella hints.
1. Chapter 1

I tell myself not to get involved.

It never does any good, I should know this. But the train still hasn't arrived and I can still see him out of the corner of my eye, huddled up on one of the cold metal benches. I shouldn't get involved. Yet I can't help but want to reach out to those that are hurting; that's why Bella is still living in my house after six months, even though I know I'm nothing more than a rebound. I sigh. People have their own lives, their own support networks, their own pains. It's not my problem.

We're the only two left on the platform. It's late; there aren't many people left to go home at this time. I glance at him again. He's just a teenager in a thin grey hoodie and frayed jeans, shivering. He looks pale, unhealthily so. I don't think he's looked up once in all the time I've been here. It puts me ill at ease.

Someone else will help him. I picture a woman, his mother perhaps, wrapping him in a warm blanket and passing him some soup. I expect the image to comfort me, but instead I feel a familiar and horrible hot sensation inside, an anger in my blood. I can't stand by, leave it for someone else to try when I'm right here.

I'm sure I will regret this.

"Hey, kid, are you alright?"

He looks up at me and close up he looks worse; far too pale, and with a sheen of sweat on his forehead that seems to glisten under the platform lights.

"I'm not a kid," he says coolly.

Great, this is a great start.

"Are you alright?" I persist.

His dark brown eyes fix me in an unconcealed glare. "None of your business."

I pause. "No, it isn't."

I sigh, but I don't move. His expression changes a little at my apparent defeat, his brows coming together in confusion. I look out towards the empty train tracks instead. When he says nothing further I take a seat next to him. The blue metal bench is as cold as I feared. I keep my gaze fixed on the empty track.

"You look ill," I comment.

"I get ill a lot," he deadpans.

I think he's in his late teens, going from his appearance and voice. I'm glad he's not being actively hostile. I was a pretty hot-blooded teen not so very long ago. Perhaps I haven't changed that much, because I find myself saying,

"You're always this friendly, then?"

I'm glad I'm not looking at him when I say it, so I don't have to see his expression. Hurrying to cover my outburst I reach into my jacket for a small water bottle I still have on me, still three quarters full. I hold it out in his direction.

"Need a drink?"

There's a few seconds pause where I expect him to answer, but when I hear nothing I finally look at him. He's staring at the water bottle. I guess he is thirsty after all. But then his gaze flicks up at me, and he looks very pointedly back towards the rails.

"I don't mind," I say.

"I don't take drinks from just anyone."

Distrustful and unfriendly. Great. Still, I don't think I can blame him for it. He doesn't look like he's had it easy. I leave the bottle on the bench between us. About a second after I put it down, I hear a very distinctive gurgle. It's his stomach. Sounds like he's hungry, too.

"You going home for food?" I ask.

He glares at me again, and then shrugs. "Yeah, sure." A blatant lie.

I glance down at his trainers, dark blue and nearly worn through near the toes. They look pretty old.

"Yeah, sure," I echo.

"I'm not going anywhere with you. You smell like dog," he says.

"I own one," I explain, deliberately ignoring the insult. "And I was thinking of offering more of a vending machine snack." I nod in the direction of one of the ones further down the platform, stocked with chocolate bars and crisps.

I see him hesitate, and I know he's tempted.

"I'm not a leech, I don't need your food," he says at last, so disdainfully it almost outweighs the length of the pause before his reply. Almost.

This was a mistake. I know this was a mistake and I have no right to be angry. I am, though. I can feel my blood boiling and before I can stop myself I practically slap a hand onto his forehead. My intention is to confirm how ill he is by temperature and then accuse him of stubbornness or something, but at the contact I draw in a sharp breath instead, and my words evaporate. He gasps too, and it's no surprise – his forehead is like a fridge shelf under my hand, which must feel like a furnace to him by comparison. I withdraw my hand in an instant, briefly lost for words.

"Are _you_ ill?" he asks accusingly, wide-eyed.

"No!" I don't know why I shout back. Either way, it is at that moment that we both become aware of the approaching train. The rush of air flaps my jacket outwards as it draws into the station, screeching a little as it draws to a halt. I stand up automatically, then look back at him. I search for words that will make him accept my help, but it seems too late. However, I catch him looking at me oddly. It's a long look, from head to toe and back, and I find myself unsettled by it.

"Bet you'd offer me a place to stay for the night too, wouldn't you?" he asks softly.

"I'm not a pervert!" I blurt out as the train doors open, and I cast up a silent prayer that no one heard that. His sudden change in manner has thrown me off; I'm not sure what he's fishing for. I step onto the train. I should just find a seat and move on. I count to ten. I look back.

The teen is standing, and stumbles a little as he begins to walk towards the train. What? What is he doing? His gaze and his movements are determined, but clearly effortful. He's almost there when the doors start to close. He stumbles again. I move without thinking. Before I know it, I've grabbed his arm and pulled him in.

He sags instantly against the partition beside him, and then slides down onto the floor. I crouch beside him and put a hand on his shoulder, shaking him lightly.

"Hey. Hey."

He half-lifts his head, and holds the water bottle – the one I had totally forgotten about – back towards me. I take it from him and unscrew the cap before pushing the bottle back into his hands and directing it towards his lips. He doesn't resist. With a speed that surprises me he drinks it entirely, finishing it just as the train begins moving. Had he done all that just to return the bottle to me? I hadn't even noticed he was carrying it.

"It's been a hot day," he mumbles, as if in explanation. With one limp hand he pushes the hood back off his face. His hair is like earwax in colour and shine; whether for illness or lack of washing I'm not sure. "A hot day…Why am I cold?" he asks the empty air.

The day had been a boiling one. Perhaps I might have considered heat exhaustion for his state, but it was evening already. Wouldn't he have recovered by now? I look at my now-empty water bottle, and ponder if he needs more. Either way it looks like he's out of energy to fight me. I sit down beside him on the floor of the train. The sounds of the train are soothing, just the gentlest of motions and rhythmic noises as we progress. It's too dark outside the windows to see the surrounding countryside as we leave the station behind. I look back over at the teen.

"I'm Jacob," I introduce myself.

He sighs, and shuffles into a more upright position. "I'm Edward," he answers.

A few minutes pass in silence. I wonder what he's planning; if he expects me to take him back to my house now. He's shivering a little less now that he's inside the train. He looks exhausted.

"If you're going to do it, do it whilst I'm awake," he says suddenly, in the direction of the carpet.

"What?"

"You know what," he whispers, tilting his head towards me. His eyes are old. "Just promise me that. At least that."

My heart pounds. I can't imagine what he could be saying, what he could be implying. I shake my head slowly, my eyes wide. I'm trying to deny his assumption, but he seems to think I'm denying his request.

"Promise me," he repeats, his voice like ice. His dark eyes seem to stare right into me, demanding my attention.

I can't deny what I suspect. Hadn't I blurted out the very thing that confirmed I knew his suspicions before I even got on this train? But to accept this, to promise this… A simmering anger tenses my stomach, but I don't want to make an argument of it. Not here, not now. I want to help him. I nod curtly.

"I promise."

We don't speak again. He leans back against the partition, and sleeps fitfully for the rest of the journey.

Only a handful of others get out at my stop, all girls. It looked like they were coming back from an eventful night out. I watch the group walk past whilst I stand in the open doorway of the carriage, conflicted. But there is only really one option now. I tap Edward on the shoulder. In a second he is awake; he had probably not been sleeping properly anyway. I don't know what to say for a moment.

"This is my stop," I say eventually.

He nods, stands, and steps out of the carriage. As if it's that simple. Together we walk out of the small station and through the carpark beyond. There's only two cars in it, looking as out of place as forgotten puzzle pieces.

"It's just twenty minutes from here."

He doesn't say anything. It seems like he's withdrawn into himself. I try to focus on other things. There's a few main roads to cross before we're on the road home, roads relatively empty compared to their daytime rush. The road to my house has a broad pavement, curving upwards on a hill. A series of semi-detached houses give way to more generic terraced ones, and I stop outside number 48. The gate's hinge has broken and the garden is overgrown. It hadn't bothered me until now. The outside lamp senses our motion and lights up as I reach for my key. I run through how I will explain his presence to Bella. I look at my watch. 1am. She'll probably already be asleep.

I open the door and step into the hallway. He steps in behind me, and I turn on the hallway light and close the door behind us. It's not much to see; a beige carpet, an umbrella stand, some coat hooks on the wall. I don't know why I have an umbrella stand but no shoe rack. I don't know why I've never thought about this before. It's lovely and warm though. The central heating, at least, is perfect.

"I, uh…I have some instant noodles. I'll… go heat them up." I point towards the kitchen, uselessly, before hanging up my jacket. It's small in the kitchen, and none of the utensils, pots, or plates ever seem to match. I don't notice the mismatch by myself, but now I have a guest it bothers me. Still, the walls are a bright, cheery yellow, made warmer when I turn the light on. I reach for the nearest cabinet and grab some chicken and mushroom instant noodles, then put the kettle on to boil. All of this time Edward doesn't say a word.

"Are you still cold?" I ask, making conversation.

"I'm always cold," he answers dully, looking around the little space with disinterest. He's not shivering, though.

The kettle rattles and clicks to a halt, and I pour the boiling water into the pot and hunt for a fork whilst the water does its work. Edward looks strangely calm. I think about what he said on the train, then push the thought away again. The noodles are ready soon. I find a fork and pass him the pot. He takes it silently and begins eating. I decide to boil the kettle again for something to do; some coffee, at least.

"Where's your dog?" Edward asks after a moment.

I wondered what else had felt missing. I sigh. "She's probably sleeping in Bella's room again." I'd told her not to spoil her; so much for that.

"Bella?"

"My…" I hesitate. I want to say girlfriend, but something in his gaze stops me. As if he can read my mind. "Housemate," I finish.

The kettle clicks again and I pour myself an instant coffee. I change the topic back again. "My dog Nessie is old and practically deaf now, but she's very friendly," I tell him. She's also strangely picky with her friends, for a dog. She's friendly to everyone, of course, but the distinction between who she likes and who she _really_ likes has always been pretty clear-cut to me. I wonder which category the teen in front of me would fall into.

"I don't like dogs," he says.

I guess that decides it. Edward finishes his noodles pretty quickly, and then passes me the empty pot.

"Do you love her?" he asks suddenly.

I jump a little internally. "Who?"

"Bella."

I look down at my coffee for a long moment. I'm almost wishing we were back to the _first_ awkward silence. I search for something else to say, and as I search his expression for either an answer or a way out I see his hair again.

"You can use my shower, if you like. It's upstairs, the door straight ahead."

He nods, and I try not to show my relief that he didn't keep asking.

"I think there's a spare towel up on the stair rail on the landing."

"Sure." He turns and leaves the kitchen. I exhale quietly.

As I wash up the few items we've used I ponder his question. Do I love Bella? I picture her long, straight brown hair and gentle smile, her shyness, her kindness. I believe I do. I sigh. For better or worse.

I eat biscuits whilst I hear the shower going upstairs, and think about where Edward could sleep, or if he would even want to sleep here. I've finished the entire biscuit pack – ginger nuts – without coming to a conclusion just before I hear Edward coming back downstairs.

The first thing I notice as he steps back into the kitchen is this: He's only wearing the towel.

He's fitter than I had pictured in that baggy hoodie, perhaps even strong-looking in a lean way. He has muscles in the sense one might from being hardened and resilient, rather than the result of leisure activity or vanity. His skin is pale and smooth save for a few small scars. I think he could be considered attractive even, with a strong jawline and hair that – now washed, is a pleasant bronze colour. However, to me, he still looks a bit ill. His eyes speak of a need for rest, but the expression he wears is determined and closed off.

"Do you need to borrow some –" I begin.

"We can do it now," he interrupts smoothly, closing the door behind him.

"Uh…What?"

"I'm clean." There's a hint of bitterness to his voice.

My mind does a violent jump-start. Woah, back up. "No." I hold my hands up firmly in a 'stop' motion but he walks forward as if I'd said nothing. If anything, he looks more disgusted by my rejection.

"I don't want to owe you anything. I would rather just do it now."

I can't make the right words come fast enough. "You don't owe me anything – please stop," I try to reassure him. Finally he hesitates, the slightest flicker of doubt crossing his face. Then it smoothes over again. He reaches for the edge of the towel.

"Don't worry, I'll be quiet," he says softly. There's the slightest hint of a smile at one side of his mouth as he untucks the corner of the towel from his waist.

I didn't want to offend or embarrass him, but it seems I have to play my last card. "I'm not –"

That's when the kitchen door opens, and Bella walks in.


	2. Chapter 2

The towel hits the floor at the exact moment Edward hears the door. I see his eyes widen briefly, and then he turns smoothly towards the noise without even attempting to cover himself.

Bella doesn't take long to go from her sleepy state to one of stunned surprise. Her gaze flicks over the naked stranger and then she blushes dramatically, but keeps looking for just a fraction of a second before she turns away, and I realise with a weird feeling that she finds him attractive. Then she wraps her arms around herself, as if suddenly self-conscious of her thin white nightie and sleep-messed hair. She looks between Edward and me, and then back to Edward. Her lips part.

"I was just asking Jacob if he had any spare clothes. Sorry. You made me jump when you opened the door, and I dropped the towel," Edward says first. He reaches for his towel far too slowly and smoothly, practically a picture of calm. Her blush gets brighter.

"Who…?" she manages after a moment.

"I found him. At the train station. I thought he needed help." I finally find some words.

"Sorry. Excuse me." Edward bows lightly – _bows_ – towards Bella, and then leaves the kitchen quickly.

On our own, Bella looks back towards me. "Needed help?" she asks, confused.

"He looked – looks – ill. He was shivering, and cold, and sweating," I rush.

"He…didn't seem that ill," she says. "Is he staying?"

"Just overnight." I'm assuming.

She frowns a little. "Is he homeless?"

"I'm not sure."

"If he is, will you keep him here longer?" There's a weight to her question I can't unpick. It's like her thoughts are distracted by something else.

"I don't know." I hadn't even thought that far ahead. Bella seems nervous now, suddenly worrying. Then she stills suddenly, as if she's come to a decision.

"Perhaps I should go."

It feels like a sudden jump, and something inside me goes cold. "What? Why?"

She gives me a long look, and the kitchen feels like it is shrinking around us. She plucks at the sleeve of her nightie.

"You've been too kind to me, letting me stay here and –"

I've already crossed the space between us and I grab her shoulders firmly. "You know you can always rely on me, Bella. I'm here for you."

She hesitates and bites her lip. She looks down. "I can't. I can't do this, Jacob." She sounds…so serious. Despite its impromptu nature I have an uneasy feeling she's been planning this conversation and my muscles tense.

"Is this because of the kid? He'll be gone tomorrow, Bella, it's not an issue." Why is she doing this now? I tuck a strand of hair behind her ear and tilt her chin up with my finger. She's in one of those bad moods again, I can tell, thinking bad things. "Hey."

"No, but – I…" She fidgets. "Taking care of that kid –" She glances back over her shoulder towards the door. "Taking care of me… I was going to tell you this evening, but you came home so late…" Her voice trails off, the last words so quiet I barely catch them. My hands tighten involuntarily around her arms.

"Tell me what?"

"I'm going to go back." The words come out clearly, but not without tension.

"Back?" My voice rises before I can stop myself.

"He needs me," she says quietly, "How can I not?" Her eyes flick up just for a moment to meet mine. The question is like a punch.

"No," I say. I don't know how to make myself say more. When I'm stressed the words get stuck. And those three words in particular never come. I wish I could just kiss her hard, hold her tight and close, and somehow just make her understand that way.

"I should have gone before –"

" _No_."

"I have to Jacob, please, understand –"

"You _left_ him." It's all I can manage.

She tries to shrug me off, cringing as if I'm holding her too tight. I tell myself to let her go, but my body won't obey me. I want to reason with her but all the reasons I know are there have flown out of my brain. A hot, twisted feeling coils unpleasantly in my gut. He's bad, he's bad, he's _bad_. That's all I can think. She can't go back to him.

"He'll be worrying where I am…"

The words send alarm bells ringing in my skull. _Calm down, Jacob_. I can feel my heart pounding. My thoughts feel like bad static, trapped bees buzzing in a jar unable to communicate properly with each other. One thought makes it through a bit clearer. Six months. Six months, she's been here. I want to argue this, but my jaw is clenched too tight and I don't have enough time to unglue it before she speaks again.

"I'm the only one that can help him, Jacob. Please." Her eyes are glistening as she looks up at me.

The yellow walls and white cabinets are lost to me now. The lacquered wood flooring beneath me too. I see only her face, that pale and delicate face that I want to protect so fiercely I think it might rip me apart. _Words, Jacob._ They don't come. She has such an effect on me, when she's like this. So vulnerable, so lost. I don't know why it makes me so furious, so frustrated. I want to hold her but I can't. I'm not really her boyfriend. I'm not really her anything.

"You're too kind, but you've helped me enough now." She forces a weak smile, and I can tell how hard it is for her to say the words. I want her to unsay them.

"Don't." The word comes out hoarse and strangled. Normally I could handle this. She's been like this before, even though she hadn't seemed as set on really going before. But perhaps that Edward kid, the stress of helping him, the shock of his suggestion, the jolt of seeing Bella before I was ready and then this so suddenly, now –

"I love him," she says, with the softest of smiles.

And with that, twenty one group anger management sessions, five herbal remedies, and a handful of supposedly-good-for-venting boxing sessions burn to ash in under two seconds.

The noise of the crash is incredible. It seems to shake the entire building, even though that would be impossible. Plates. Mugs. Bowls. They smash onto the floor as easily as if they were nothing but porcelain feathers. I can hardly feel the objects on my skin. That was the dish rack. I hear barking. I turn to the cupboards. One door hinge gives out. Cereals, spices, cans. I pull a whole drawer free and throw it down onto the floor so hard that two sides pop out of their joints and the contents lurch across the floor like a tidal wave of metal. Glasses soon crash down after them, shattered shards skittering outwards like hail. I don't know if or when Bella leaves the kitchen. I wrench open the next cupboard.

I don't know when I stop, or how long it's been, but I'm looking at the open kitchen doorway and Edward is looking back at me. He's heard me. He's seen me. Something twitches inside me, a reflex as sharp as a needle of fire. My fist shoots towards him.

The next thing I know my right arm is twisted behind my back and I am being slammed onto the floor on top of the debris. Solid weight is pushing into my back, holding me down. I feel my elbow joint being pushed and twisted, to the point where a sliver of pain bursts through my blind fury, cursing up towards my shoulder. Struggling in this position is difficult – every movement puts my arm and shoulder in increasing pain – and sharp fragments scratch across my belly as I strain against the littered floor. Within five seconds I have cooled down. I still. My mind pieces together our position slowly. I realise his left shin has been pinning down my left arm whilst his right shin has been on my back. His hands are still twisting my right arm, but they relax slowly now. When he lets go the limb falls limp and heavy, and when it hits the floor the jolt sends a spasm of agony upwards. I hiss through my teeth, nervous about trying to move it. He's strong – far stronger than I might have imagined, and I'm a long way from weak.

"You're different when you're angry," he says thoughtfully. I feel his weight shift, and he moves off me.

With my left arm I push myself into a sitting position. Every movement makes my right arm hurt, the shoulder quickly becoming the epicentre of the pain. He sits across from me, cross-legged. Still, despite his relative composure, he doesn't look too well for wear himself.

"Bella," I say. I take a breath. "Where is she?"

"Upstairs."

Instinctively I want to go after her, but I already know it won't work. I slump back. I look back at Edward, afraid of what he might think of me. Hating him for having seen this.

"I'm sorry," I say.

"You're bleeding." He's looking down at my stomach. I look down too. A few small patches of blood have soaked through my blue t-shirt.

"It doesn't matter."

There's a soft whine from behind him. I see Nessie, my Irish red setter, pawing nervously at the edge of the debris, whining as she looks up at me. Awkwardly, she begins to make her way towards me. I cringe, fearing for her paws. She nuzzles up to me, whines again, and then lies down with her head in my lap.

"I'm sorry Nessie." I stroke the soft fur on her head and sigh. I can feel Edward staring at us. Staring at Nessie.

"May I?" he asks after a long moment.

I thought you didn't like dogs? I keep the thought to myself. "Sure."

He reaches out and strokes her back. She shifts a little but otherwise doesn't respond. The mood is too strange for me to really tell if she likes him right now. I think she's as undecided as me.

"She was waiting halfway down the hallway when I left, so I stopped to pet her," Edward says. "Then after Bella went upstairs she barked and paced a lot."

It occurs to me he is still wearing the towel. He's been outside the whole time.

"How much did you hear?" I ask.

"The door was still a bit open," he says quietly.

Everything. He heard everything.

"It's really that bad that she loves someone else?" he asks, softer still.

I tense, and Nessie whines. I can't expect him to understand. Her abusive, controlling ex. A man who watched her every move. A man who was obsessed with her, and convinced her he acted for her own protection. A man who liked the sight of her blood. I don't answer Edward. It isn't my story to tell anyway, and it isn't Edward's business.

I'm afraid that maybe now I've frightened her as much as her ex did. The thought makes me feel sick down to my bones.

"Can you go and check on her for me?" I hate to rely on Edward for this, but I have to know and I hardly think she'll be glad to see me now. I didn't hit her. I try to cling to that, but even to my own mind it feels feeble.

He pauses, then nods and stands. He's at the door when I call out again.

"Edward."

He glances back.

I swallow my pride. "Thanks."

He leaves.

I don't know how long I sit there, stroking Nessie, occasionally counting my breaths and waiting. Whenever I shift my weight I can hear something crunch beneath me. I dread to think of the future cleaning up I've incurred. But at the same time the thought is almost comforting. Humane. Practical. I try to let it distract me for a while, picturing how to put things back together, how to collect all the broken glass.

I'm so lost in thought it takes me a second to realise when Edward has come back.

"She's okay, just a little shaken. She wants to know if you're okay."

I let out a long breath. Caring, compassionate Bella. Worrying about _me_. Guilt twists my stomach into knots again. I will have to talk to her later. But I need time. We probably both need time. Edward walks towards me slowly, and then crouches down slowly. He stares at the rubble between us, and runs his index finger over half a wine glass.

"Have you… Have you done that before?" Edward asks.

I don't want to answer that. Hell, I don't even want to _think_ about answering that. But something about his hesitation makes me feel like he's on the edge of something else. Opening up, perhaps. I wonder why he isn't afraid. I stare down at the rubble between us, too. Time passes, almost enough for the question to slip by into nothing. Then I sigh, and it's an old sigh.

"Yeah," I admit. Not in front of Bella, though.

"Same," he says.

Our eyes meet. Something exchanges – a faint connection. Without words, I know he will stay for the night now.

I struggle to my feet. The kitchen looks like it's been subject to an armed robbery. I scoop poor Nessie up in my arms and hobble towards the doorway where I put her down and briefly check her paws. It looks like she'll be okay. I look back to Edward. He glances back at the kitchen and then back to me, and I can tell he reads my intention: _I'll deal with that tomorrow._ Nobody has the energy for that right now. I close the door behind us and head for the stairs. Nessie nuzzles the back of my leg.

"Lounge," I command. She trots off. She has a lovely large plump bed of her own, she doesn't need to share. Bella spoils her. I head upstairs.

The spare bedding is in my wardrobe and I pull it out with faint shame; I have only one spare blanket and the colour of it is an aged beige, and it smells musty and old. I thump it out a few times in my room. It's not as thick as a duvet – I wonder if he'll be warm enough. When I look up I jump a bit – he's right in front of me. He must have moved too silently for me to notice, but I might have if I hadn't been expecting him to wait outside anyway. I fold up the blanket again and put the pillow on top, and hold the bundle towards him. He reaches for it and as it passes between us our fingers meet underneath, and I am shocked again by the difference in our temperatures.

"How are you feeling? Will you be warm enough?"

As if to answer me I see him shiver just a little. He is still only wearing that towel.

"You can warm me up," he says, moving towards my bed. He sits down on the edge and looks up at me expectantly.

"Look, Edward…" As my mind searches for some way not to confront this I realise I don't even have a hot water bottle to offer him. How do I not have one? "You can borrow some pyjamas," I finish lamely. I only have one pair of pyjamas too, I realise, because I never normally sleep in them. They were a gift from my sister Rachel, and consist of a simple grey top and red chequered bottoms. I dig to the bottom of my wardrobe for them and throw them in Edward's direction. He frowns a little as he catches them.

"Are you really that innocent?" he asks softly.

I look at him, and don't speak for a moment. "Is this what you do? Sleep with people who give you food?"

Another very slight smile. "You really are." There's almost a hint of awe in his voice.

"Look, you take the bed, I'll sleep on the sofa." I reach back towards him and take the blanket and pillow back from him. He blinks in surprise. I simply walk back towards the doorway. As I put my hand on the light switch, however, he speaks.

"What do you do for a living?"

It's an odd question to be asking now. "I'm a teacher," I tell him.

He processes this. "What school?"

I turn the light off and for a moment I just stand in the darkness, resting my hand on the doorknob, wondering why he is asking. He doesn't go to my school, surely, or I would have recognised him. I shrug.

"Forks High School."

I can't see the harm in telling him.

* * *

 **A/N: Thanks for following! I am going to be using 'AU' in the most wonderful sense of the word, and re/shaping absolutely all locations to my whim. Also, I am British. So if this America also ends up leaning that way, uh... forgive me? :P  
**

 **I may later have to bump this up to an M rating for brushing against darker themes. We'll see.**


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